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Trapdoor groans—not ghosts,
but hinges shedding rust like snake skins,
old wood sighs beneath the weight of years,
a dry cough of timber settling into itself.
Sunlight, thick as poured honey,
warms the spines of leather-bound scrapbooks
where ink bleeds into yellowed pages.
Grandad’s trunk yawns open:
Inside, a woolen uniform, stiff as frozen fish,
still guards its stripes.
A cracked leather suitcase spills sepia photos—
a bride squinting in the Missouri sun,
her lace gloves chewed by silverfish.
Under the dormer window sits
a hobbyhorse missing an eye,
its rockers having scarred the floorboards.
In the corner, discarded Easter baskets
melt into wicker tumors filled with
fossilized foil-wrapped chocolate eggs.
The beams hum with termite hymns—
tiny jaws dissolving joists
into sacred dust.
But open the window~
catch the updraft of cut grass
from the yard below.
It wrestles with the gloom,
this breath of living things,
and for a moment,
the attic remembers the world.
I was gently awakened by euphonic cooing
of mated doves perched on aspen branches
whose golden leaves rustled sweet silver songs
I rushed to open my wooden dormer window
and hum a greeting to their soft morning trills
With hands splayed on the ancient stone sill
my face welcomed the sun's auroral warmth
I felt the chill of Autumn's breath biting the air
and exhaled in contented sighs of appreciation
for the stunning beauty of this mountain valley
To paint nature's colors without dreary compromise
would require a far greater artistic hand than mine
While gazing from my cabin's primitive casement
I descried a canvas stippled in blazing pastoral hues
framed by the rustic charm of my bedroom window
it’s 2 am in paris
and we have locked arms
as we walk-run
down the rue des rosiers.
the soles of our shoes
smack against
the eight hundred
year old cobblestone.
we hurry
to an unknown destination,
desperately searching
for a room
for the night.
on the dim street corners
desperate men leer,
as they do,
while we huddle into ourselves
in an equally desperate defense.
we are fourteen
and lost,
in every sense.
we walk for most of the night.
i begin to feel as if
i’d always been walking,
as if i would never come
to a stop.
when finally we knock
upon a paint-peeled door
and are offered a room,
we collapse
onto the bed
in a heap of exhaustion
and exhilaration.
we open the dormer window,
allow the traffic and
the ceaseless midnight chatter
of the eighth arrondissement
to wash over us like
dandelion seeds on the wind,
and you begin to sing.
my voice raises to join yours
and we lie in bed,
singing ourselves to sleep,
utterly unaware
of the time and beauty
and youth
we’ve been gifted.
Stranger things happen
Than what's just happened to me!
Walking past a house
I saw an image there
In the dormer window looking
I noticed the burn of her stare
As I stood to take a look
She just vanished in thin air
The windows blackened up
Anyone could see that no one was living there.
The building tempted me to approach
But I just didn't dare.
I knew something was there
By the atmosphere of the air.
As I moved away the image faded back
Only half seen.
Like she was holding back?
I turned my head sharply with a focused track to catch her looking at me.
She smiled and disappeared
I smiled an inner smile, I acknowledged that I was still free.
By not turning that key, I'd stayed away from what would be to me a dark insanity.
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